


Celebration

by mistr3ssquickly



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: I was over this fandom, M/M, and then i wasn't, birthday fic, is anyone ever really over it?, there is no cure, what is this trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: It's Luke's birthday. Han shows up to help him celebrate. Pointless fun smut.





	

Luke’s deep in meditation when he senses Han approaching his quarters late in the evening of his twenty-third birthday, the older man covering focused intent with an act of nonchalance, his usual behavior when he’s up to something. Nothing new or troubling, at least, so Luke stays where he is, focusing his attention on stretching his physical body into a handstand, pulling at the Force to equalize the flow of blood throughout his body, evening it instead of allowing the gravity on their latest hidden base to draw it into his head and arms.

The resulting sensation is exhilarating, almost like that of weightlessness, for all that his hands are pressed firmly to the floor as he opens his eyes and focuses on the familiar shapes in his quarters: the squashy, narrow bunk at the far end of the room, the crate containing the few personal belongings he’s dragged with him across the stars. A small table and chair, luxuries afforded him as a gesture of recognition of his status, his contributions to the Republic’s cause. All of them strange to his eyes, pulled evenly and constantly and inescapably to the floor, held fast by forces by which he is no longer bound, no longer helpless to obey.

“If you’re puttin’ on a show for me, I ain’t impressed,” Han says by way of greeting when he comes in and Luke doesn’t drop out of the handstand right away, focusing instead on the strangeness of Han’s boots pulling against the gravity compelling them to the floor with each step Han takes, the floorboards bowing and flexing under his weight. He’s lying about being unimpressed, at least a little bit, the familiar mix of fascination and unease he’s had since his first introduction to the Force winding through him as Luke reaches for him, sensing him, indulging in the familiarity of him. Enjoying Han’s grudging willingness to accept the reality of the Force presented before him, both now and in the past, equally unnerved and fascinated by the existence of a power he can’t control and doesn’t entirely understand.

He’s got his unaffected act on full display when Luke steals a peek at him, his movements loose and fluid as he settles into a sprawl in the chair at the center of the room, watching with almost voyeuristic intensity as Luke curls his body into a controlled descent, easing the balance between the Force and the planet’s natural gravity as he lowers himself to the floor. He offers Luke a lopsided grin when Luke looks up at him, as if he knows he’s interrupting and is pleased to see that Luke’s willing to let him, a statement of where Han ranks in Luke’s priorities that Luke isn’t entirely sure Ben or Yoda would take well, if they were around.

But they aren’t and Han is and it’s been a few weeks since they were last planetside together at the same time for more than a handful of hours, so he pushes aside the nagging sense of duty and responsibility and crosses the room to sit on the edge of his bunk, darting a curious look at the bottle of Whyren’s Reserve Han’s brought along with him.

“What’s the occasion?” he says, pulling his legs up in a criss-cross in front of him.

Han tosses his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Chewie reminded me that it’s Leia’s birthday today,” he says, tracing the contour of the bottle with the tip of his finger, his gaze carefully focused on the bottle instead of on Luke, “and since the two’a you are twins, that means it’s your birthday today, too.”

Luke feels his face go warm and doesn’t bother trying to suppress it, for all that Han’s teased him mercilessly in the past over his fair coloring and its tendency to betray what he’s thinking and feeling. “Thank you,” he says, awkward and pleased, watching Han uncap the bottle and pour two generous glasses, taking the one Han offers him. “This is -- thanks. Means a lot to me.”

“Sure,” Han says, reaching out to knock his glass against Luke’s. “Happy birthday, Luke.”

Luke lifts his glass in acknowledgement and brings it to his lips for a sip, the liquor burning all the way down as he swallows. It tastes better than he remembers it tasting the last time he drank with Han, but only a little, a shudder passing through him as he swallows, which Han of course notices and laughs at him for.

“Acquired taste,” he says, the same he’s said every time he’s dragged Luke out to some grotty cantina or into the cockpit of the _Falcon_ to drink with him. He turns his glass in his hand, considering it like it’s a work of art, not cheap whiskey in a glass he most likely nicked from the mess. “Wasn’t sure you’d be up for this, to be honest,” he says. “Most religions I’ve come across take a dim view of the fun things in life. Thought maybe yours would be like that, too.”

Luke shakes his head. “Not that I know of,” he says, “but the Force isn’t a religion, so it doesn’t dictate things like that.”

Han shrugs again. “Sure looks like one from where I’m sitting.”

“It isn’t,” Luke says.

“Well,” Han says, “you’d know better than me, I guess.”

There’s no malice in his tone, no temper rising under his skin that Luke can feel, even when he reaches for the older man, searching him, sensing him. A hint of uncertainty, of hesitance, that dissipates when Luke takes another sip of his drink and says _it’s good,_ warmth blossoming in Han’s mind that bleeds into Luke’s feelings, mirroring the burn of the liquor in his throat as he takes another swallow, the warmth of it spreading in his chest and belly, strange and pleasant.

He’s halfway through his second glass when Han joins him on his bunk, reaching out with a hand far steadier than Luke’s feel to comb his fingers through Luke’s hair, breathing out a contented sigh when Luke leans forward and kisses him, taking the kiss long until he can’t taste whiskey on Han’s mouth anymore, his heart beating fast with desire amplified by the alcohol in his system, by the long abstinence from Han’s touch. The frustration of having only one hand free to grope Han compels him away from Han’s mouth just long enough to take a generous swallow of liquor and set his glass aside, Han grinning like he’s won a bet when Luke turns back to him, tugging Han’s shirt free of his trousers.

“What?” Luke says, sliding his hand up to feel the familiar scars criss-crossing Han’s ribs, feeling the muted thump of heartbeat reverberating through bone and muscle.

“Nothin’,” Han says. “Just glad your Force religion doesn’t say we can’t mess around. Thought it might.”

Luke rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing as he does, the alcohol in his system making him feel loose, comfortable. Not entirely unlike the sensation of floating he enjoyed during his meditations. “Not a religion,” he says, tipping his head to the side when Han leans in to bite him on the throat.

“Glad to hear it,” Han says, and it’s a stupid thing to say but it makes Luke smile all the same, closing his eyes and sinking into the sensation of Han touching him, the thrum of arousal and desire he can sense when he reaches out, Han’s feelings twining with his own.

He’s fully hard when Han pushes him back and unfastens his trousers and starts to stroke him, his touch firm and confident with the body-knowledge of their years messing around together. Fully hard and hot all over with the desire for the man kissing him and stroking him, the alcohol in his system bringing every sensation into sharp relief rather than numbing him, his cock going slick in Han’s grip after just a few minutes of being stroked, the bunk squeaking in protest as he pushes his hips up, his body greedy for more. Han doesn’t hesitate to give him what he wants, either, the bunk squeaking again as he moves down the bed and covers Luke’s cock with his mouth, taking him deep straight away and sucking on him like he means it. Not the best he’s ever been with his mouth, but good all the same, the pressure and friction of Han’s mouth mingling with the carnal desire Luke can sense coming off of the man through the Force, bringing the pleasure to a crescendo faster than it’s done since he was a virgin coming apart under Han’s touch in the captain’s quarters on the _Falcon_ years before.

He reaches for the Force when he feels the first sharp swells of orgasm starting to crest inside him, tries desperately to draw himself away from the heat coursing through him as he’s done with pain so many times over the years, but instead of receding, the pleasure only strengthens, the echoes of his own desire clashing with Han’s, shudders of feeling from Han’s body glinting like reflected light across every nerve-ending until all Luke can manage is to tangle his hands in Han’s hair and come in Han’s mouth, his body shaking through the aftershocks as Han pulls off and licks him clean, dropping a ticklish kiss to Luke’s belly before moving up the bed to kiss him on the mouth.

“Take it easy, kid,” Han says when Luke’s almost got his breath back and tries to get his hands in Han’s trousers, bleary but determined to reciprocate, the promising heat of Han’s erection pressed tantalizingly against his hip. “You look like you could do with sleepin’ this off for a minute before you try anything else.”

Luke licks his lips and draws a steadying breath. “‘m not a kid,” he says, reaching once again for Han’s cock.

Han catches him by the wrist and holds tight, trapping Luke’s arm between them as he leans in for another kiss, his greater size and weight allowing him to keep Luke still, pinned beneath him. “Nah,” he says, “but you’re still a brat when you want to be. Startin’ to think you’re never gonna outgrow that.”

It’s little more than a playful show of dominance, a competition Han’s certain he’s going to win, but it sparks something in Luke’s belly all the same, the combination of alcohol and endorphins in his system weakening his usual inhibitions, his usual ability to resist Han’s baiting. He relaxes under Han’s weight, luring the older man into a false sense of victory, then dips into the Force and traces the line of desire he can feel in Han’s kisses, warm with pride and affection and lust, the glowing heat of animal wanting centered where Han is hard, his cock slick against the fabric of his underwear, straining for touch. It jerks when Luke touches it the first time through the Force, little more than a gentle pressure, almost careful and exploratory. Han’s heartbeat picks up as Luke touches him again, his cock hardening further as Luke forms the mental image of his mouth wrapped around the length of Han’s cock, manipulating the Force to emulate suction and friction against the flared head, the stiff shaft.

Against him, Han huffs out a choked breath and pulls away from Luke’s mouth, grinding his erection against Luke’s hip more on instinct than conscious thought, the hand wrapped still around Luke’s wrist tightening as he slips into a rhythm, rocking himself against Luke’s thigh. Disquiet feathers at the edges of his mind, bleeding in the usual distrust he holds for all things mystical and intangible, but it’s barely more than a murmur, all but drowned out by Han’s desire for gratification, the mounting fervor Luke feels humming in his own blood. He draws from memory the shape of Han’s body, the tight curls of dark hair growing thick around the root of his cock, his balls drawn up tight, sensitive to Luke’s touch. The thick muscle further back, the tight dip and pucker of Han’s ass. He presses against it with the Force, feels resistance that gives way as he reaches further, nudging Han’s prostate. Forms a mental image of sliding his fingers deep into Han’s body, stretching him slowly, carefully, working him to the point of begging.

It’s a nice mental image, a mix of memory and old familiar fantasy with the very real weight of Han breathing hard and moaning against him, his own mounting desire distracting enough that he’s taken by surprise when Han pushes away from him, flushed and uncoordinated, and sits back on his knees to paw clumsily at the clasp of his belt, the fasteners of his trousers.

“Gotta have your mouth on me,” Han growls, shoving his trousers and underwear down, freeing his straining erection. “Now, c’mon, _please.”_

More desperate than Luke’s ever seen him before, cursing softly when Luke sits up and pulls him into his mouth, licking up the slick mess of precome streaked down the length before sucking at him in earnest. He curses again when Luke presses into him with the Force once more, pushing insistently at Han’s prostate, feeling Han’s stamina falling away as he works him, building towards orgasm, steady and powerful. Han fights it, struggling as he always does when he and Luke mess around to last all the way to the last possible moment, and the sound he makes when it hits him, orgasm ripping through him like a bad jump to hyperspace, makes Luke’s cock twitch against his thigh, arousal seizing in snarls under his skin, electric in its intensity. He gulps at Han’s cock through the jerking waves of release, looking up through his fringe when Han breathes out his name and threads his fingers through Luke’s hair, his chest heaving still as he catches his breath.

“Pretty sure I don’t wanna know how you did that,” he mumbles, collapsing in a graceless sprawl of limbs, only barely missing the wall at his back on his way down. “Any’a that. Kriffin’ _hell,_ Luke, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were tryin’ to kill me.”

“The Force,” Luke says, stretching out beside Han and taking in the sight of him, trousers pulled halfway down his thighs, cock going soft, still a little wet at the tip. Thoroughly debauched. “Nothing lethal. I promise.”

Han snorts. “Tha’s cheating, y’know,” he says.

“I won’t do it again if it bothers you,” Luke says, fully expecting the glare Han only half-opens his eyes to aim at him and answering it with his sweetest smile just for the reaction it gets him.

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Han says. “Jus’ seems wrong, you doin’ all that for me when it’s _your_ birthday.” He reaches out and, on the second try, manages to get his hand in Luke’s hair, ruffling it. “Gotta learn t’let others spoil you every once in a while. ‘Specially on your birthday.”

Luke pulls Han’s hand away from his hair, trapping it loosely between them. “I’ll work on it,” he says. “Try me again next year. Let me know how I’m coming along.”

“Yeah,” Han says around a yawn. “Yeah, we’ll do that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s ramblings

These two idiots deserve each other.

I wrote this in honor of anyone who _happens_ to be celebrating a birthday today (25 September), not that I can think of anyone specific who might fit that description, nope, definitely can’t, why are you looking at me like that.

Also, my brain’s tired, but if it weren’t, I’d be churning out something stupidly adorable about Chewbacca remembering Leia’s birthday and bringing her something nice, effectively cock-blocking poor Lando and Wedge, both of whom would dearly love to celebrate the princess’s birthday with her. Leia, for her part, would rather have a quiet evening to herself, but that’s just not how things go when you’re a princess and a rebel leader, I suppose.

Yup.

Also-also, it feels weird to write _Star Wars_ fiction that doesn’t have massive amounts of plot, angst, or philosophical rumination in it. Or a threesome, truth-be-told. Been a while since I wrote these two just enjoying each other’s company. I’d love to tell you that I enjoyed it, but this story was a right pain in the ass and I’m glad it’s over. Ugh.


End file.
